Jupiter’s Angel
by planet p
Summary: AU; Miss Parker is working an undercover operation alone, so why is Sydney there, too? Miss Parker/Sydney


**Jupiter's Angel** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.

* * *

Her name's Diana; she jiggles and rocks to the disco beat in a shiny, dark blue dress with a hem that falls high up on her creamy, smooth thighs, just below her backside, and if she drops her purse at the bar when she's buying an apple martini and bends to pick it up… she'd better be careful on her gold pencil-thin high heels.

Her slim, serious face is bare but for the gold lipstick, and a smile. Her long dark hair is worked into a pony tail; when it's let down, it'll only be for her special someone.

She moves well on the life-threatening shoes, and strangers' eyes move on her body as she moves to the rhythm. She's had three, maybe four martinis by this stage, but she's standing as well as ever.

She's here searching for a friend, or foe; the alcohol makes her indecisive. She knows he'd not harm her, yet, she's given up nicotine, and she's been edgy since. People would say she's no more edgy than usual, but the difference is she's not in control of it any longer. Before, it'd been a game, her game; now it's become a disease, and all she can do is manage it. There's a cure, she knows, but it's more deadly than her affliction, so she won't get burnt.

Her body is a slim number, but though she treats it unkindly, and doesn't feed it like she should, and takes too much caffeine, it's still got the moves, and she's grateful to it for that; she really does love it.

When she dances, sticky eyes follow her. She moves toward the bar – it's brighter there, almost less crowded there – for another drink; she's not thirsty, but it's always best to hydrate yourself before you feel the dehydration, she's heard. She varies her routine, and orders something with peach and white wine, ice cubes.

She toys with the little red paper umbrella, she'd sit, but there are no places; all seats are taken. She glances to either side of her, for the heck of it, and spies, then, a familiar body; someone she knows, works with. Her steps are fuelled by anger, with no care; she's had too much, now, she knows.

He's come as a warning; he knows because they're alike, they both share voices in their minds, they're mad, but right now, she's madder, mad at him. He's just stuffed up her undercover op, she knows; he's fucked it all for her – so what's he still doing here?

She'd shoot him, weren't there so many people; but he can't be waiting for that, so maybe he's waiting for her, looking out for her! The thought is hysterical, and the alcohol makes it unbearable, and she reaches him in fits of laughter, causing him to turn and look – can't help it – as many others must have also, fleeting flashes of eyes, but his eyes linger, because he _knows_ her, and the frown turns from sympathy and mild interest to worry.

Her hand is out, and falls short of his shoulder the first time, so the second time she goes for his face, and it connects with a sound that rings in her ears and makes her unsteady on her deadly heels. "You fucking bastard!" her mouth sprouts, then she's laughing again. How can she be serious, how can she be _angry_, when she can't stop fucking laughing? _But she is angry!_

He stands now, to offer her support, or to leave, she can't figure out, and, for a long moment, she thinks maybe he's offering his seat, but then her narrow blue eyes land on his angered expression, wavering then steadying.

Oh, he's angry, is he! The audacity, because he has no right! Retrieving Jarod is _his job_, and her job! She's doing her job, and he's sabotaging it for her, sabotaging her freedom, her life! And that's him, standing before her, _angry_!

She raises her hand again and slaps him in anger; she's glad he didn't stop her, because she needs to expend her anger someway that doesn't involves firearms. She's too angry now that if she had a gun, she wouldn't be able to stop herself from shooting him!

But he's got her wrists now, and she's so, so angry. She wants to shoot him _now_!

By this point, she's had all she can take, and she's telling herself over and over, _Reporting him will be enough_. They'll punish him, and it won't be a slap on the face, and that'll be enough; that'll be enough.

She's spent days on this – _two weeks_ – and he comes along and ruins it all! It'd been the perfect plan; the perfect foil, a case too good for Jarod to pass up, then, when he caught the bait, she'd be there to reel him in.

Except, Sydney is here, and Jarod is not – because Sydney has _warned_ him! She wants to kill him; she wants to kill them both!

Sydney is an adult; he knows what he's done; he knows what she's risking is her life – if she can't deliver Jarod, the Center will forfeit her life for her incompetence! Mr. Parker is no longer there to protect her – My daddy's the Chairman, why don't you _just try_, and see! – he abandoned her in a moment of madness, and now she's all alone – not even Sydney is on her side, Goddamn it!

She's alone.

She twists her wrists in Sydney's grasp, she needs to break his hold; she needs to find Jarod! She can't allow herself to believe he's gone! He's watching, laughing. She needs to go to where he is, needs to bring him back.

Sydney releases her hands of his – _He wants me to hit him!_ she thinks hysterically, eyes like dark flames like shards of ice – and rests a hand, after, on the lower half of her arm, "I do not understand this dance; would you help?"

He's touching her arm, an arm shaking from anger, but he's not holding her, he's not keeping her from her work, from Jarod, that is only his words! She can't believe there's any reason for _Sydney_ to want to understand the type of dancing people do in discos; he's hampering her, unsure whether Jarod _has_ left or not.

In his mind, Jarod worries for her to the point of life-endangerment; he worries for Jarod, more than he worries for her, but he likes to pretend it's about even; that's why he stayed, or maybe he needed her to know, needed her to forgive him. She's not going to do that! He will be unforgiven!

She shuffles her feet out of frustration, out of anger, and they find the rhythm of the music – they don't want her to fight; she's a lover, not a hater; she's an _angel in disguise_ – a laugh forces it up her throat. "You want to understand this _shit_?" she barks, her throat painful from laughter when she uses it.

"I do," comes Sydney's casual, comforting response – _Of course_.

She hates his voice, hates his accent, the way it makes her feel safe. She hates _him_! He gets it, alright, but he knows she's hated him this way before, knows he's always had the power to fix it, to make it all dissolve, to make her trust him again. He trusts that he knows her.

She jerks a hand up and fastens it to his arm, not caring if it is painful, and leans into him. "I don't think you do!" she hisses close to his face, and her eyes fix on a spot in his left eye, that way she doesn't have to look into his eyes, she can look at them instead, but this time they're different, there's rebellion there, and she can't look at them too long; so she looks away.

_Does Jarod know how much Sydney loves him_, she wonders, _does Sydney know? And who is there to love me?_

Dark blue tears move in her eyes, and she drops her head from Sydney's gaze, from his observation, and pulls his arm, urging him after her, and though she can't _hear_ her footsteps, she feels how loud they are, how loud they must be, like the tolling of a clock in an empty room.

* * *

She's laughing and the sound fills that empty room with warm, bubbly energy; she's laughing because Sydney is funny.

The music isn't the same with Sydney with her, just as she knows it isn't the same to Sydney as it is to her; Sydney is like that, he does that. Does she try to understand him, sometimes? She doesn't know why, but maybe, yes, she does. Oh, and why not, he's Sydney, he's Jarod's former mentor; she's Jarod's pursuer.

Sydney is smiling too, not laughing yet, and in his eyes she can see Jarod's mentor and Sydney. Jarod's mentor doesn't smile for her; only for Jarod, only for the genius. Sydney is softer, but he can be harder; Sydney can scare her, and make her feel for him. Jarod's mentor isn't real, just a function, a thing to perform a job; maybe that's where that middle ground has gone, maybe it's no longer with Sydney because it's with him, Jarod's mentor, maybe.

But Sydney isn't angry, and neither is she. She can't be now. If she could, she'd go running after that anger and take it in her hands and hold it fast and tight, but she's happy and she feels good. She never feels good when she's angry, and she can't hold onto that bad feeling with Sydney, not with Sydney.

* * *

She's standing in the dark in front of one of those hamburger carts, bright, artificial light streaming into the darkness, clinging there like the grease stuck to the grills and sideboards inside, the fridge door. It's cold, but Sydney's standing beside her, and she's wearing his jacket – she didn't want to take it when he gave it outside the door to the club, but a line was forming behind them, and his hands pushed it back on her, he wasn't moving until she put it on, so she put it on – and Sydney's buying her a coffee, and it'll probably be bad, but it's Sydney buying it, so she'll never say.

Things like these, she thinks, she saves like keepsakes for the times when she's truly angry, when she'll snap open her keepsake tin and riffle through it, looking for weapons to throw, looking for words to maim with: _You only ever buy crappy coffee! If I wanted crappy coffee, I could just as easily buy it myself! Is it because you want to poison me? Are you trying to poison me? Do you want to see me dead? I wouldn't even feed that to my dog! Scratch that, I wouldn't even feed that to Lyle._

Her thoughts make her laugh, and Sydney turns to see if she's okay. She's okay – she's laughing, isn't she? – but Sydney has to see before he can believe, would he ever believe those voices in his mind? She laughs harder: He's a bigger sceptic than her!

She turns as he turns to her and wraps her arms around him and hugs him. She wants something to cuddle, and he's there; she wants to hug him, too. _Do I scare you sometimes? Are you cold, I took your jacket? I don't want that coffee, but I'll take it anyway. Why aren't the good coffee places open now? They're all shut at this time. Are you tired? Did I keep you up? Do I look tired?_ There are too many questions to ask, too many words that'd only tumble over themselves; Sydney would frown. _Don't frown, it's okay._

She loosens her arms; his cheeks are pink from cold as she looks up into his face in search of answers, the bright light made his skin look funny, and the pink on his cheeks look funnier; she kisses him.

His lips are cold, and warm too, and she steps back sharply, realising her mistake. She's here for the coffee. The gravel at her feet crunches and shuffles underneath her shoes, her legs are cold and unwilling to act. _Oh, that was probably the wrong thing to do._

"Lady?"

She turns about and is met with a face full of bright, bright light. The light hurts her face, dries her skin. She takes the coffee, which Sydney steps up to pay for, but she turns quickly to sip the hot drink. Oh, she really needs the coffee, she tells herself, but she knows the coffee's to warm her up, she knows she could probably do without it, it'll only make her jittery, make her mind jump from thought to thought. She can lie to herself, but _she_ still knows that it's only a lie; it's no good, really.

She sips her coffee in the dark and cold; it's not too hot because Sydney asked that it not be, he didn't want her to burn herself. Should she apologise, she wonders, is she sorry? Her thoughts wraps themselves around her, but she's still cold; they don't make her warm. She's still wearing Sydney's jacket, she remembers. Maybe she should give that back. Why isn't Sydney saying anything? He's okay, isn't he?

She spins swiftly, then feels foolish. _Oh. Of course he's okay!_ She's not diseased; nothing bad can have happened to him from her… She forces the thought away. _Stupid._

"Do you want sugar?" Sydney is asking her.

Her eyes widen. He's looking at her; he's seen her looking at him. And… he's talking to her. She can't think whether she should speak, can speak, then… Oh. _Sugar_… She tries to think about that. Does her coffee need sugar? Only, she can't remember what the coffee tastes like; she'll need to take a sip to be able to tell, and that'll look silly she thinks, so she merely shakes her head, No.

The boy inside the van shrugs, but she doesn't notice this. She doesn't hear what Sydney said to the boy, but then the boy is preoccupied with other customers, and she can't see Sydney anymore either, because the customers are standing in between them, in the way. Her mind is taken over by her thoughts, her vision clouded. _Oh, this is bad! Could it get worse?_

Then, the customers have left, the van doesn't have EFTPOS, the woman has left her purse in the car, and she can see Sydney again. He isn't looking at her, but she speaks anyway: "Oh, I'm sorry."

Her voice makes him look up, and he walks toward her – she thinks that maybe she wants to run, but it's cold and dark, and she'd be frightened on her own, and cold – so she stays where she is, and chews the edge of her coffee cup, and sips her coffee.

"Are you ready to go home?" Sydney asks her, and she looks up into his face and nods, forcing away the jolt of fear in her chest before it has the chance to reach her eyes. She feels safe again, because she can see Sydney, because he's standing beside her again, but she feels uncertain too.

So what, Sydney makes her feel safe, but what's wrong with that? She relaxes a bit, and makes herself speak. "Yes."

They walk together toward the car, the bright light at their backs growing weaker as they walk, unnoticed. As the night grows darker, Miss Parker takes Sydney's hand.


End file.
